Breaking Traditions
by rainessence
Summary: Johanna's story - her personal journey down the dark rabbit hole and transcendence into that manic, sharp tongued killer we all love :
1. Chapter 1

**Epilogue**

Disclaimer: I don't own Hunger Games or their characters.

I have to say, my favourite characters in the series is hands down Finnick and Johanna, no contest. I find their characters are extremely multifaceted. Originally I had wanted to write about Finnick, but there are so many wonderful stories already out there.

Johanna stories are a little harder to come by. Hopefully this fanfic shows her progression as a person, and I've done her some justice by portraying her more than that evil deceitful bitch cross with malicious killer. Warning though, she is a lot nicer in the earlier chapters... but don't worry, the foul mouth, jaded bad ass will emerge eventually if you stick around long enough

PS My writing skills have taken a great hit from disuse over the past few years. :(My apologies in advance.

Apple and walnut.

The sweet, warm scent teases my nose, its tendrils slipping into the recesses of my dream, tugging at my conscious until my eyes open. I sit up, breathing deeply, letting the bright sunlight that splashed across the hardwood floor come into focus, and wait for the chickadees's awful singing. It never came.

Either I've gone completely deaf or I missed it. And my money's on the latter.

Groaning, I jump with a start and scramble towards the door, almost tripping over the small mass of brown and white fur by my bed. Two ears perk up, and I am greeted by the yawn of Dalton's dog who is absolutely miffed I have disturbed her sleep. She stands up, places her paws delicately in front of her, extends her back, twirls twice before ungraciously plopping back on the floor.

"No one gets to sleep in today," I growl, nudging my toes further and further into the fluffball, until I get a satisfying squeal. I deftly retract my foot and laugh as Dove's snapping jaws catch nothing but air.

"Better luck next time" and give her a quick rub of apology. She eyes me warily, unamused. Apology rejected. Unlucky for her, I don't have the time or patience to win back the trust of a spoiled brat of a dog.

I stumble down the stairs, sailing past the final seven steps in one leap for efficiency sake, and burst through the kitchen. My father is sitting in his favourite chair, clutching the newspaper while my mother is by the stove with a skillet in her right hand, her face radiating from the glowing coal, both are completely immersed and oblivious to my entrance.

" I slept in," I accused my mother. The table is already set with our finest china and a hour shaped pitcher brims with fresh orange juice. It didn't sparkle or glitter or burst out in song. I almost sigh. It is the real deal and not the fake disgusting Capitol powder stuff that you mix with water.

I force myself away from the sight because my table etiquette is hanging by a thread and a moment longer I would have dived headfirst into the pitcher. Instead I concentrate on the single lit white candle wreathed in walnuts, mimicking the flame's strange intricate dance with my lips.

"Stop making faces," my father scolds. He hasn't moved an inch, and his head is still lost in the papers. So much for being oblivious. But then again, nothing ever gets past him. I am convinced an extra pair of eyes lurks beneath that mop of hair. In fact when we were young, Dalton and I were so keen on proving this theory, we had snuck into our parents bedroom one night armed with scissors, only to be apprehended and given a stern reprimand, followed by the beating of our lives. I haven't dared test that hypothesis since.

"You were smiling in your sleep... I didn't have the heart to wake you. Don't worry, I have your dress all ironed out, the ribbons and hat are on the dresser, and your Sunday shoes are polished. We don't have to be to the town square for at least two hours. And I'm just finishing the last batch of pancakes. Look! Not a burnt one this year! " she beams, bends down to kiss my forehead, and I instinctively draw back. She laughs at my stiffened expression and holds out the plate. I grab it and place it gently on the table, careful not to disturb the centerpiece, the aroma of apples eliciting a longing groan from my abdominal region.

From the corner of my eye, I catch my mother's turned back, move safely out of father radar and within a second, I was in heaven, chewing blissfully and savouring the soft texture of the pancakes. I had already spared the orange juice, so the pancakes puts me right back on par. And oh, was it worth it. The lingering tart apple is still clinging on my palate.

Ironically, for a district whose livelihood solely depends on trees, apples are a prized rarity. Ever since the rebellion, our lovely Capitol has branded all trees tasty a District eleven responsibility and uprooted and transplanted our ancient fruit tree groves east. Not only do these apples cost an arm and leg, many don't survive the three week tumultuous journey from District eleven. But Dalton loved them and would work an extra night at the lumber yard in order to trade in his timber at market for half a pound of apples. It is never enough for a pie, so on special occasions, my mother will make her infamous apple pancakes. It has now become an annual tradition.

I take my seat across from my father, who remains rooted to his spot. I wonder if he can smell apple treason on my breath and down a glass of water as a preemptive measure.

My father is a man of few words, but when he's up to it, he can tell you all the inner and outer workings of our town, the sordid history of Panem, and the hidden tales of almost every living and deceased person and I'm willing to include animals and trees on that list. Yet, I can't recall the last time we've had these conversations. Nowadays, I'm fortunate if I can elicit more than the occasional nod or offhand remark

Over the years, the crevices have deepened around his dark intelligent eyes, his hair has ebbed away into mottled shades of gray, a hump has formed between his shoulder blades, his well defined muscles has atrophied from the long hours spent logging and carrying timber.

My mother sits down beside my father. She is a petite woman and wears her hair properly - tied back and pinned up. Her eyes are a speckled brown, wide set and tired. Her hands are chapped and worn from the paper mill, and she looks as if she is made of glass. On rare occasions, she still manages a smile that warms an entire room.

The last chair beside me, reserved for my brother, Dalton, is empty.

It's been empty seven years today.

To everyone in town, it's Reaping day. To us, it's the anniversary of my brother's death.

AN: Hopefully it was clear, but yes, Johanna's brother was a tribute The next chapter draft is already done, just need to fine tune it =)


	2. Chapter 2

Just two more hours until I can go home, I repeat to myself as I walk into town and towards the main square.

It never fails to amaze me how tidy the main square is for the Reaping event. I barely recognize it. The stage has been recently swept, our district emblem is shiny and polished, and there isn't an inch of moss or algae on the cobblestone floor and the numerous potholes have mysteriously vanished. The nearby bushes have all been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced. Snakelike wires weave through the crowd. That can only mean one thing – camera is rolling.

Don't we all want to look our best, I thought dryly. I feel absolutely awkward in the green cotton sundress. The lace collar is too tight around my neck and the undergarment keeps rubbing against my skin. The leather shoes are a size too small, unfamiliar and unyielding and I am certain my feet are blistering. Oh what I would give to show up naked. The ribbons attached to my hat are the most infuriating part of the costume. No matter what I do, they end up dangling in front of my eye, or tickling my ears or getting caught in the collar.

I twirl one of the green ribbons around my finger with every intention of yanking it off.

"And who is this pretty little girl? I don't believe we've ever met!" a familiar voice rudely interrupts, followed by a whistle. I know that whistle anywhere and grin.

" Oh and I've been trying ever so hard to keep it that way, " I retort, turning and facing the bemused expression of one Tane Cedar. I pause to take in Tane's outfit – his purple velvet pants are too short, and he has tried to compensate by pulling his socks over the hem. The amount of lace on his white shirt outweighs my dress and undergarment combined and his upper body is swimming in the oversized jacket. I almost choke. "What the hell are you wearing?"

He grins and twirls for me. There are actual multi coloured gems arranged in a circular pattern at the tail of his jacket. "Purple, in case you aren't aware my dear, is royalty. My father picked it out."

" Better to be a peasant than look like that." I can't stop staring at the monstrous sunflower attached to his lapel. He takes notice, unfastens it and pins it to my hat. And I let him. It's the least I can do to salvage his wardrobe malfunction.

"You really are too gracious with your compliments," he smirks. " You know what the best part of reaping day is. Timing how long it takes me to recognize you in that dolled up state. Strange thing is my record gets worse every year. Are those real ribbons I see?" his hand shoots towards my left to snag one, I dodge and slap his hand away, holding both ribbons in one hand in feign protectiveness.

"How dare you touch my hair!" I shrill in a Capitol accent, curling the silk between my fingers.

He laughs, both of us knowing the truth. I have no hair.

When Dalton failed to return from the games, the seams holding my family burst and unravelled. My mother fell ill, quarantined herself in her room, and no amount of crying, reasoning and begging could unlock those doors. Within two weeks, my father was fired for absences and sloppy work. He had zoned out while he was on safety duty and a tree had fallen and crushed three men to their deaths.

When the pains and hollowness in my stomach and heart became overbearing, I shaved my hair. That night I rummaged through my brother's trunk and traded my dresses, ribbons, cloth shoes for a plaid shirt, leather coveralls and steel toed shoes. At the break of dawn, I slipped unnoticed into an eager crowd of men, each one vying for a monthly contract at the lumber camp.

Lumber camp is an all exclusive male club, run under the iron fist of one Titan Demure who has quite the creative methods to keep his employees in line. For the initial week, I lived in absolute terror of being found out. I didn't converse and kept myself busy in the mindless process of delimbing fallen trees and retired to the cabins before nightfall. By the second week, I was insulted that no one took note of my clearly feminine delicate features, wide brown eyes and long eyelashes. In the third week, I felt invisible but safe.

It was around the time I was promoted to the tree topper position that my secret cover was blown with these three words by none other than the whistle punk, Tate Cedar.

"You pee funny."

He claims up to this day that it was pure coincidence we found the same bush. I claim it was pure coincidence my fist found his jaw.

I spent that entire evening shaking and staring at the cabin door, waiting for Titan to storm through and dismantle me into pieces. When dawn broke, I realized my secret was safe.

Peacekeepers are ushering us now towards the designated sections and Tate separates from me and heads towards the boys area but not before he manages, " Good luck Johanna". I walk to the cordoned off area with the "Fifteen" sign on it and stand at the back of group. I watch the leaves flutter in the breeze, and try to tune out the annoying nervous chatter of the girls around me. I regard their pale skin and thin soft bodies with disdain. No wonder why District seven never had any female victors. Unlike their male counterpart who spend their lives helping out in the logging crew, chopping limbs, rigging and falling trees, wielding axes and dragging timber, girls are taught to feed and press pulp into paper. And out of the sixty eight games, I've never heard of death by paper cut.

The mayor takes the stage and the crowd silences. He is decked in all black and I groan inwardly when I see the thickness of the cue card stack in his hands. I catch bits of his garbled speech - something about honour and sacred traditions, privilege, the Capitol. The crowd breaks into wild cheers and applause as our previous victors file onto the stage. There is an uncanny resemblence between the four males - they are gigantic, well muscled, with the same dark eyes and hair, and the same blank, stern expression. A wave of nausea sweeps through me when I recognize Konad - Dalton's mentor.

I take a couple deep breaths, forcing the surfacing memories back under and concentrate on the words spewing out of Jaques Jabba's mouth. He's been our district's escort for as long as I can remember. He is a short man, with an enormous pouch of a belly that expands on an annual basis. His gestures are overexaggerated and he has an odd habit of nodding his head vigorously when he is speaking, even during disagreements. It's quite bizarre, because the faster he speaks, the faster his head bobs.

I am so enthralled with his bobbing head, I don't notice the crowd holding its breath. I barely register the moment he puts his hand in the reaping ball and call out enthusiastically,

"Johanna Mason!"


End file.
